“She always had an uncommon look. But what she looks like now, I don’t know. I hear no complaints; but she has never crossed this door since we got her set up in that shop. She never comes near her father or her sister, though she lets them, leastways her sister, go and see her. I’m afraid Tom has been rayther unmerciful, with her. And if ever he put a bad name upon her in her hearing, I know, from what that lass used to be as a young one, that she wouldn’t be likely to forget it, and as little likely to get over it herself, or pass it over to another, even her own father. I don’t believe they do more nor nod to one another when they meet in the village. It’s well even if they do that much. It’s my belief there’s some people made so hard that they never can forgive anythink.” “How did she get into the trouble? Who is the father of her child?” “Nay, that no one knows for certain; though there be suspicions, and one of them, no doubt, correct. But, I believe, fire wouldn’t drive his name out at her mouth. I know my lass. When she says a thing, she’ll stick to it.” I asked no more questions. But, after a short pause, the old man went on. “I shan’t soon forget the night I first heard about my father and mother. That was a night! The wind was roaring like a mad beast about the house;—not this house, sir, but the great house over the way.” “You don’t mean Oldcastle Hall?” I said. “’Deed I do, sir,” returned the old man, “This house here belonged to the same family at one time; though when I was born it was another branch of the family, second cousins or something, that lived in it. But even then it was something on to the downhill road, I believe.” “But,” I said, fearing my question might have turned the old man aside from a story worth hearing, “never mind all that now, if you please. I am anxious to hear all about that night. Do go on. You were saying the wind was blowing about the old house.”